Debates on Latent Sexuality
by kafka-ish
Summary: A helpful dean decides to lend a hand to one of his students and quickly finds himself out of his depth. Is Jeff merely drunk? Or is an internal struggle darker and far more uncontrollable manipulating the actions of Greendale's most popular student? -PLEASE review: it's how writers learn :) even if you think it's awful-


_A/N: I cannot claim these characters as my own. __Please allow for artistic license._

_WARNING- some might consider the following to be graphic (sexually). Mature readers only read on._

He's waiting for me outside when I finally lock up, so hidden in the shadows between the trees I don't initially see him. It's a crisp autumn evening, the kind that tastes sharply of bonfires and decaying leaves, but still has the barely palpable sense of sweetness and freedom from summer lingering on the soft breeze. The calendar says it should be proper fall, but that last warm whiff transforms the world. The half moon is high in the sky, partially obscured by a few clouds slowly moving across its face and gives the building, the pavement leading to the empty car lot and the surrounding grass and trees all the same slightly monochrome look that is somewhat dreamy. Like a child slipping down the stairs past its bedtime, suddenly landmarks that look so mundane by day are cast into odd shapes by the shadows, and whisper enticingly of strange and hidden adventures. It's still warm enough to allow for only a jacket but cold enough to raise the hair on my arm as a breeze slips up my sleeve.

I search half heartedly for the correct key on my massively over keyed ring, knowing that in reality it doesn't truly matter if I lock the door. Security locks the building at eight every night, but even though it is a full three hours later and I haven't seen a hint of them, they will eventually circle back by this door and diligently lock it for me, were I to forget. It's not as if there's an abundance of thieves trying to break in; any intruder would more likely be up to some sort of half hearted drunken mischief. But I love this school, this underfunded and falling to pieces community college. I have been its dean for over a decade now, long enough that I can't truly remember my life without it. I love it completely and hopelessly, like a parent loves a lazy child, struggling to see promise when they know full well that no amount of encouragement will create a potential for _anything_ out of thin air. But I still try. Call me naïve.

I'm also a bit melodramatic. Flamboyant I guess is really more appropriate, something I've always chalked up to my appearance. I'm on the thinner side of average with long awkward limbs, and a fit frame that doesn't quite make it to attractive. My hair thinned early too, so I decided to shave it off; a look that I'm almost certain I pull off. Along with wire rim glasses, which are the only kind I can afford on the health insurance doled out by the school board, I believe I look a bit like mister potato head shoved on a tooth pick. With all this to work with, or against, I decided long ago that the only way to stand out and attract anyone's attention was to be as colorful and showy as possible. Although I have a sneaking suspicion that I'm migrating towards crossing the line into over-the-top any day now. The costumes certainly don't help. I can only imagine what the students think of me.

I'm still jangling my massive key ring, considering as I do every night to just abandon the cause and leave the darn thing unlocked, and it's the rattle that masks his voice the first time. It shrinks to nothing more than the wind through the trees. Its only when I've slid the metal into the lock and the keys settle that I actually hear him. At first, it doesn't even register. My body has begun to turn reflexively when he speaks for the third time and I finally see him lurking in the shadows.

"Dean..." it comes out of him barely above a whisper. Instinctively I jump about a foot, like a rabbit suddenly faced with a leering fox.

He flinches and takes a half step backwards, farther into the darkness. Cursing myself, I try to settle my nerves_. Leering fox indeed, in my dreams_. I breathe a quick loud sigh and give him my best surprised face.

"Oh goodness, you scared me out of my skin!" I respond in my most flighty voice, dramatically putting a hand on my heart. He stays half in the shadows and says nothing, not even an apology. "What on earth of you doing hiding in the bushes Jeffery?"

He remains silent. The wind rustles through the trees causing the shadows to dance around him, and he doesn't seem completely solid. The darkness rises and falls, like waves on a beach as he appears to float among them. The clouds are giving him the same colorless look as the rest of the world, blending his tall frame so I'm unable to discern where he ends and the landscape begins.

The silence continues, stretching into minutes. I'm beginning to debate in my head whether I've finally cracked and started hallucinating, when I realize it's actually him that's swaying; a movement masked by the shadows surrounding him. _Ah, he's drunk,_ I think and this time my sigh is real. I turn back to the door to finish locking it only to find I have already pocketed the keys. Shrugging at my own absent mindedness, I zip up my coat to ward off the sudden chill in the air and reach out a friendly hand to wave him closer.

"Come on big guy, it looks like you need a lift," I smile at him warmly, and pray that the suggestion came out as carefree as I meant it to. We live in the same building after all. He takes a few jerky steps as if he too sees the logic in this then halts suddenly, still in the shadows. I continue to wave him closer and say encouraging friendly phrases but he doesn't budge another step. Beginning to become annoyed, I remind myself that patience may pay off in the end. Besides, its my job, my calling, to help any and all students, even if they're old enough to pay taxes and own property. Especially him.

Still, it's getting steadily windier and I am not a saint. I finally close the distance between us and try to grab a hold of his arm to drag him onto the pavement. My hand closes in on his jacket when he suddenly springs to life, smacking my hand away and lurching out of my grasp. Alarmed I take another impulsive step closer, my hand still outstretched to him. He looks at it with a mixture of revulsion and apprehension, like it's a snake ready to strike. I pull it towards me quickly, feeling guilty though I'm not entirely sure why.

"What on earth has gotten into you?" I ask incredulously, and his eyes whip up from my hand to my face. He finally takes a step closer, and the clouds shift enough for me to see him properly. He is in agony. I can literally feel the pain; his face is so tightly twisted it deforms his features. I gasp, and only a little dramatically.

"Oh, Jeffery. What ever it is, let me help you," I say, mostly without thinking. There is a pause, but it seems to do the trick. His face instantly relaxes, not in a calm way, but as if exhausted. When he speaks, it's gruff and dejected, as if he has lost some inner battle.

"I need you to come with me."

I've never been in his car before. Of course I'm petrified, not only because of the close proximity and very personal nature of the trip, but also because I've never been in a car driven by a drunk. I spend most of the ride desperately looking out for cops and simultaneously praying to whatever saints I can dimly remember from catholic school. He seems to almost shake as he drives. The agonized look on his face has been replaced by one more vacant and distant, obscured by strobing light of the street lamps that flash past. He stays barely within the lines and well over the speed limit as I watch with an obsessive, bordering on fanatical eye. When, a terror filled half hour later, we finally pull into a nondescript alley and he puts the car in park, I theatrically lunge out of the car. I have never been so happy to feel solid ground beneath my feet. I fight the urge to kiss the pavement.

He shuts his door and moves around the back of the car. As he crosses, with the newly cherished safety of firm pavement beneath my feet, I take a good look at him. He is obviously tired, and walks as if he has aged ten years; an old man instead of barely thirty. His gait is heavy, the cocky poise that makes the girls swoon day in and out at school gone. He has his trademark leather jacket on, but it seems to be weighing him down and falls off his trim shoulders unevenly. His shirt and jeans are always rumpled, but it looks more like he's been sleeping in them for days instead of making a trendy statement. Even his hair, his perfect jet black hair, his pride and joy, seems lost. It's dejected, halfheartedly styled and I watch, astounded, as he absently runs a hand through it. His boyishly charming face looks empty without his normal I-don't-give-a-shit grin, and is a mask to me once again. Even his eyes seem sunken, the whites overtaking the cool blue of his iris.

And, god help me, he is still gorgeous.

I look away guiltily, as if he can read my thoughts. Not as if my feelings towards him are a secret, anything but. I've made my motives clear since day one, almost ridiculously so, and they have been steadily unreciprocated. And with that I begin to wonder what I am doing here.

I suddenly realize he's looming over me, and unexpectedly I cringe away. But he's only reaching above me, pulling down the fire escape I blatantly failed to notice. I'm freshly confused again when he roughly nudges me up it. I open my mouth to protest, but receive another rude push, so I obediently start upwards.

I reach the second landing and stop to catch my breath, an attempt to sneak a peek back at him. But he's already next to me, opening a window into a brightly lit hallway and before I can tilt my head in surprise, he's pushed me through the sill and into the glaring light. I land on my arm.

Now, I feel like up to this point I have been more than understanding. I have patiently gone along with the stormy wind thats driving him, pointedly not asking too many questions and being as charming as can be. But god like looks or no, this is the last straw. As I push myself upright, I plant my feet firmly and put on my best you-got-some-explaining-to-do face.

"I am not going a step farther until you explain to me exactly what on earth is going on here!" I gallantly stand my ground, and try my best to ignore the quivering of my spine. He looks terrified when I speak and instantly hushes me, but I won't be swayed. "No, I've been dragged to god knows where, for god knows why and I think I am owed an explanation." I hear my voice unconsciously rising at the end. I debate pouting, but truthfully I'm beginning to become somewhat anxious. I have no idea where I am, and I have no mode of transportation home so I am, in essence, trapped. Not that I really mind, but it's still odd and that worries me.

"Seriously? Shut up." He growls at me, but he looks worried too. He starts to push by me but I grab his arm spinning him around. He stops, and looks intently at the wall just beside my head. He tilts his head as if considering something, and I see his face change. For a second he looks almost as his he is going to laugh, tell me it's all a joke and send me on my way. But then his eyes lock mine. I can really see them in the bright hallway and I realize with a jolt that they aren't cloudy. They are clear and focused, and he's looking at me with an intensity that makes me feel incredibly hot, but not in an altogether unbearable way. _He is sober_, is the confusing thought that goes through my head, when his whole body changes. Something in him snaps and he suddenly grabs my arm and barrels down the hallway. He has the look of a mad man, but a grateful one. Someone that has seen the edge of the world and, regardless of either having chosen to jump or being tripped over into the void, resigns himself fully to his unavoidable fate.

Doors flash past us, and I am barely aware of a sense of familiarity as he flings one open after a rush of keys. His face is determined now, and the door slams abruptly behind us instantly plunging the room into darkness. Still holding my arm, almost crushing it, he drags me on as I try to glance around in the dim light. I'm in a crowded kitchen, about the size of my own, but this one is considerably dirtier. Counters overflow with empty boxes from various restaurants, forks poking out like flagless masts marking territory. A messy table is to my right, barely discernable beneath a jumble of papers and text books, and as my eyes adjust to the gloom I can see an entrance way into another room straight ahead. A living room, it turns out, just as messy but with thoughtlessly discarded and strangely familiar clothes fighting a winning battle over the shrouded furniture. I'm moving rapidly as I take this all in, his iron grip on my arm tugging me steadily onward, now down a hallway with no pictures. Slowly, agonizingly, a thought occurs to me: _this is his apartment_. And that's when I see where we are headed and my heart stops dead with a sickening thud.

He's flung us both inside his bedroom and slammed the door when reality as I know it comes screeching to a full and total stop.

I'm vaguely aware of him taking off his jacket and throwing it on a chair. I dimly know that my heart should be beating, if not insanely fast, then just at all. A thousand day dreams and fantasies are suddenly springing out of the dark corners of my mind and coming to life, growing to life, out of the floor right in front of me. I try to breathe. I can't seem to remember how. My mind lurches with a jolt into overdrive, searching insanely for the real reason I must be here. He's returning some valuable he's found. Some sort of dare a prank with the other students. A haunting at the school which only a dean can set right. A dead body in the closest that needs to be buried discreetly. Assassins on the roof. Anything. It can't be what I think. There is absolutely no possible way.

He sees me staring and comes across the room at me, grabbing the collar of my jacket so harshly I think he's going to hit me. It startles me back against the wall. Then, surprisingly softly, he lowers it off my shoulders. It crumbles to the ground with a soft rustle that sounds like thunder in the deafening silence of the room. His eyes are locked on mine, desperate and tortured.

"I need this," he says in a horribly quiet voice, looking away. I don't have to ask what he means. I can feel the tension, the heat radiating off of him. I just don't understand. I can't understand.

"But," Tumbles out, and I'm not sure which of a thousand questions I should ask. I try to wrap my mind around what's happening, but it's like swimming through cotton. My thoughts come to me slowly, like glaciers, as I vainly attempt to grasp the situation. My head feels fuzzy. My limbs won't move. I can't think. This isn't happening. It cannot really be happening.

He's looking at me with a mixture of pure disgust and hunger, like a huge wild animal finally cornering its prey. His eyes blaze, and I can see he's tinkering on the point of madness; hating himself completely for his desires but wanting more than anything to succumb to them. Self loathing is oozing out of him like tar, slowly filling the room, and rooting us to the spot, only inches away from each other. At any moment, I think, he could snap. And god knows what will happen then. It raises the hair on the back of my neck, and I try to step away from him unconsciously forgetting I'm already up against the wall. I realize with a jolt that I'm babbling.

"Oh my god would you just shut up?!" he screams at me, shoving himself away. "I don't _know_. I don't know why or for how long or any of that. All I know is that I'll feel better, sleep better, DREAM better if I can get this," he spits out the word like venom, "out of my system."

_He wants to use me is all_, I think discardedly, my heart sinking. At the same time another part of my mind, and anatomy, thinks in quite a different tone, _he wants to use me._ I try to brush the disturbingly thrilling feeling it elicits to the back of my mind. But I can see the lust in his eyes now. Also, the unmasked fear.

I'm terrified now, terrified of the reality of all this, terrified of giving in knowing he doesn't care a damn about me and will undoubtedly break me and equally terrified of refusing. My heartbeat has come back full force and is roaring in my ears. If only I could think straight. He's staring at me, his eyes boring into me. His breath is coming out in ragged bursts, and he seems to be wound impossibly tight, like a tiger ready to spring. He looks at me as if I have caused this anguish, and I feel like a cornered, caged animal. The world is shrinking around us; nothing can exist outside of his unwavering stare. My brain is screaming at me to get away before I'm devoured in it. Acting out of millennia of instinct, fear suddenly wins out.

I push him violently away from me, clawing to get past him. Surprise takes over his face, and I'm acutely aware that he is easily twice my size, and twice as strong. Angrily, he shoves me back into the wall. He is rage incarnate, and I cross the thin line into all out terror. He grips my wrists with one hand and slams them above me head, his other is on my hip, pinning me to the wall. And then against all odds, unconsciously and surprising us equally, a dam breaks inside of him and his mouth crashes into mine.

Everything disappears.

I wonder, in a detached way, if I've had a heart attack and died.

Then the world suddenly rushes up; roaring around me, a monsoon of feelings and colors and life. I swoon as it crashes on top of me, a giant wave of pure emotion. I feel everything. The heat and unexpected softness of his lips, the weight of his body as he leans into me, the maddening grip on my wrists, the smell of him like musk and sweat, all unavoidably masculine. I ache for him; I want him to melt into me, rush into my pores. The why's no longer matter, they're as inconsequential as the weather in Tokyo.

My body is abruptly under my control again as he pauses for a gasping breath. I feel him shift slightly away and I desperately push my lips back into his, pulling him back to me. I kiss him with all every inch of passion I have. After the briefest pause, his lips part and and he is kissing me back, as hungry and insatiable as I am. It seems to last for hours and merely seconds at the same time, a dizzy world consisting of only our lips and a feeling of delicious need. I never want it to end. I feel our tongues crash into each other, overwhelming each other. They explore whole worlds within, un-namable places but conquered none the less by our shared hunger. We are devouring each other. My hands are free and I knot them into his hair, grasping and pulling him tighter to me. His hands are on my hips, my back, under my shirt, clutching me to him, and making me gasp at the feel of them on my bare skin. This renews his passion, and in an instant he has yanked the clothing over my head. I fumble with the buttons on his shirt, but as his mouth moves to my neck I groan and simply rip the damn thing off him. My hands are all over him now, moving on their own, grasping and clawing. I'm compelled touch every inch of him.

Gravity shifts beneath me, and I'm aware that he's lifted me up. My legs wind about him uncontrollably and I can feel him bulging against me. He shoves me hard against the wall and I gasp aloud again at the pure strength of him. His mouth has travelled down to my collar bone, his tongue whipping along it in a long fluid motion. I groan and push my pelvis hard into him, and he grinds his back into mine. My mind becomes obsessed with the inches of fabric that separate us, I feel too hot, too constricted. I desperately want them to vanish off of us, disappear into the void so I can feel all of his skin against mine. As if he hears my thoughts, he pushes off the wall and in an instant we're bouncing down onto the bed, tumbling as we rip these last annoying shreds off each other, our mouths still searching for each other in the madness of it all. Then he's next to me, his hand on my shoulder, and mine on his waist, and we are finally completely naked.

He pauses now, breathing heavily and looking into my eyes, and I see a glimmer of hesitation. It stretches on, and I realize he isn't sure what happens next. We've hit an invisible, but quite substantial wall. I can tell by the desperate and silent plea in his stare that he knows what should be next, what he wants to come next. But I can also tell he is not prepared for it.

I hesitate. It's a big step, I know, but I'm afraid that if we pause too long we will come to our senses. He leans on his elbow, still staring, and I can hear his ragged breathing. He wants it, I can feel his desire soaking out of his pores, and his grip has moved to my thigh with obvious longing. I'm torn apart inside by my own desires. _I can do this_, I think; _I can take it slow for him._

As gently as I can manage, I push him onto his back. There is fear in his eyes again, but this time it's edged with something new. I pull myself on top of him, our skin not touching by only the smallest fraction of an inch. And I look deeply into his fearful eyes, willing him with all my soul to trust me. I lean down and kiss him tenderly on the lips and beneath me I sense his body relax slightly. I linger for a moment while he softens and then I move my lips to his ear. Nibbling, gently biting, kissing, I move slowly down his throat, his shoulders, his chest. I lick light circles around his nipples. I graze my lips softly over his stomach, teasing him. I bite tenderly on his sides. I spend a moment kissing his hip bone, my tongue sliding from that peak slowly into the valley below. I nibble on his thighs, taking larger and fuller bites as I work myself up. I'm purposefully avoiding that part of him, although my body is acutely aware of it, stiff and throbbing beside my head. His own body hasn't moved, but I can feel him vibrating under my lips. Finally, I lift my head above him and take him completely into my mouth.

I hear him moan and feel his hips rise unconsciously as he pushes himself farther into me. I can feel the pulsating thump of blood pounding within him. I close my lips around him and slowly pull up, dancing my tongue up the full of him. His back arches as I pause to suck at the tip of him. He moans again, and I take him once more. I start to lose track of my body, of time, as I devour him with my mouth. I'm aware of only him as he throbs and moans. He aches for me. I feel him grip my head as he pushes me against him, willing me to consume his whole being. I move faster and faster, taken over by the maddening control I have over him. Power thumps through every cell of me and all I want is to have more, more. All of him. Everything. With a rush and a shout he surges into me and I swallow him down, gulping and gasping as he comes with a force that overwhelms me. It rushes into me, and I drink it greedily. It is the most potent alcohol, the most delicious cool summer lemonade, the most incredible thing I have ever tasted. I can't get enough. I continue to drink and drink him until I feel him collapse under me. I lay my head on his thigh, as I feel his muscles quivering. I can hear him panting, repeating quietly, "oh jesus oh jesus oh _jesus._" With a grin, I fall down beside him.

I stare upwards, gazing at nothing and seeing everything, my mind spinning. I notice the lightning bolt cracks in the ceiling, my eyes tracing them, and remember the taste of him. I ponder a curious crack in the molding and can't stop thinking about the sounds he made, the gasps and moans. How his skin felt under my fingers. I keep my eyes wide open, afraid that if I so much as blink I'll be alone in the bed and it will have been all a fantastic dream. My eyes flick sideways to him, as if to reassure myself his presence.

He's staring at me, breathing quieter now. His eyes are no longer fierce and intense, the animal fire replaced by their natural shade of vivid blue. His mouth is pursed, as if he's trying to work something out. Rolling onto his side, he continues to contemplate, his head tilting to the side quizzically. I try to fight down a bit of panic and force myself to close my eyes nonchalantly. _Here it comes¸ _I think, _the excuses, the awkwardness, the maddening shuffle out the door._ Of course I knew the price; I'm just not ready to pay. I wonder absently where all my clothes are. Shirt by the door where he ripped it off. Boxers next to the bed, just on the other side of his still naked body. I fight the arousal that causes, but find to my horror I can't, that I'm stiffening more every moment. And then I'm suddenly aware that his hand has migrated to my thigh.

My eyes pop open. He's grinning at me wolfishly as his hand slowly begins to trace up and down my leg. The gentle feel of his fingertips sends shivers down my spine. His eyes are locked on mine, a strange staring contest as he dares me to look down and I dare him not too. His hand is moving closer to my inner thigh, nearly brushing that ever growing part of me and I desperately resist the urge to moan. I surprise myself with my outward calmness though, the evenness of my stare back at him. He can't hold his gaze any longer, and his eyes dart away from me and I see them travel down my body. Smiling in triumph, my celebration is cut short when he suddenly wraps his hand around me.

I gasp aloud at the unexpectedness, and he pulls his hand away in alarm. His face is frantically uncertain, and I hurry to reassure him.

"No. No, it's fine. It's okay," I murmur. I try to breathe normally and nod encouragingly. Sheepishly, he brings his hand back towards me, and grasps me with less force. His eyes on my face, he hesitates, uncertain what to do with the alien yet familiar object in his hand. I smile at him and try to control my wildly beating heart. Seconds stretch into a minute. I am acutely aware of his still hand, it's insanely difficult to focus on anything else actually, but I don't want to rush things. After what seems like a lifetime and just when I'm about to lose my mind completely, at a maddening slow pace he slides his hand down me and back up. My eyes roll into my head at the pure ecstasy of the motion, at the reality of the moment, and my back arches a fraction. I feel him pause only a second before repeating. He continues several times, but I can hear his nervous breathing and feel the uncertainty in his movements. I gently lay a hand on his arm.

"It might help to close your eyes. Just do what you would like," I quietly tell him. He starts a bit at the sound of my voice in the silent room and his hand unconsciously tightens on me. I resist the urge to moan at the pressure, and keep my eyes calmly on his face. He regards me strangely for a second, and indescribable look crosses his face, and then he nods slightly. Abruptly, he rolls away from me.

I'm taken a back at the suddenness of his movement, and my heart sinks. I've scared him away, I asked for too much of him. Of course he doesn't mind being serviced, I think bitterly, but did I really expect him to continue it any further? With me, of all people? I bring my hands up to hide my face and my embarrassment. I wallow deep into my self pity like a swamp, allowing the murky waters to swallow me.

With a jolt like lightning through my spine, I suddenly feel his hand on me again. This time it's a bit colder, and strangely slick. But he moves it with much more purpose now and I shudder with sensation, moaning aloud. His hand expertly flicks up and down, fast then slow, and I feel a tingling warmth envelop me. My back arches and my hips mirror his movement. My hand grasps his arm, and I can't help but sneak a peek at him, as if to solidify that it's really him that's doing this to me. His eyes are shut now, his head tilted backwards and his lips are parted only a fraction, but as I watch a slight low moan escapes them. Blood rushes through my body at the sound and I feel it surging and building in me. I love every second, and I also want more, so much more. I want him inside me with such a blinding passion I cannot control the groan it elicits. I savor every flick of his wrist while I grow more frantically aroused, grasping his arms tighter and tighter. In the back of my blissful mind I realize he has put some sort of lubrication on his hand, something that tingles, but after a few moments I cannot sustain useful thought anymore and I surrender to the moment. I let the world drift away until all I can feel is the pure pleasure. The rest of my body melts, and it's just my hand on his arm and his on me, and desire is building, building within me like a hurricane. Complete and utter bliss fills my mind, and I come quickly, unable to hold out any longer after everything that has happened. I call out, my hips lift violently and I come crashing down, breaking into a thousand pieces as pleasure rolls over me.

A few seconds or a thousand years later, I feel my body start trembling. I'm gasping for air, slowly pulling the millions of pieces of myself back together. I feel his hand unclasp me, and his body fall heavily back on the bed. I can hear him gasping too, just barely perceptible over the roar in my ears.

We lay there for some time, as our breath returns to us, our hands and limbs unconscious of their position on each other and heavy as anchors. I know I must be grinning like a jack-o-lantern, and all I can feel is happy exhaustion. I can barely think straight, every inch of me cries out with elation at the memory of his touch. I can hardly believe any of it, and yet my body still yearns for more. I know the night is coming swiftly to an end, and I try to push the thought roughly to the back of my mind. But I am suddenly afraid to look at his face, that I will see the power that brought us together has faded. That he has been delivered the peace and absolution he so desperately wanted and will be ready to move on from this moment. I cannot help myself though, and agonizingly I turn my face and look at him.

A minute later he mumbles in a drowsy way and pulls me close, his arms wrapping around me. As sleep warmly nuzzles itself into my exhausted brain, it is the look I saw on his face that calms me more than his strong arms or his hot breath on my back.

Tomorrow the world will return to normal. He will go back to his friends, to laughing and joking and avoiding me altogether. This secret and illicit rendezvous will be firmly locked up in the back of his mind, only resurfacing on cold lonely nights when he is alone in this same bed. I know it will be as if this never happened.

But I don't care. Because I know that for one night, he was mine and I was his. He wanted me and loved me, if only for that brief moment. And as I drift into oblivion, I know I'll never forget the look on his face.

He was smiling. Just like me.


End file.
